


The Annual Stark Family Fourth of July Celebration

by screamlet



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Fourth of July, Gen, Growing Up, Holidays, Sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stark family does the Fourth of July. (Or: Tony grows up by Fourths.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Annual Stark Family Fourth of July Celebration

Tony’s best memory of his father is also his earliest.

He’s five but still short and scrawny enough that his dad can carry him around on his hip. Irma, his nanny (his last nanny—she’d be around for another year or two, until he was too old for nannies and old enough to be shipped to Andover) follows them, murmuring things Tony doesn’t hear because he’s got a Howard-eye view of the main room in the machine shop.

It’s the biggest room he’s ever seen. It goes on forever; more than once, he’s twisting his body so much to see everything and everyone that he almost falls out of Howard’s grip. “What are you doing, champ, trying to get out of time with your old man?” Howard asks as he laughs. Tony wraps his arms around his dad’s neck so tight and Howard laughs again.

Howard’s taking him up and down the aisles of machinery, each machine weirder looking than the last. Some have giant saws, some have robot arms working, most have baskets with one or two people inside at the top who wave down. Tony wants to see all of them, every single part of every single machine, because these aren’t like the kits Obie brings him—these are _real_ and _scary_ and _great_.

He stops squirming and tightens his arms around his dad’s neck again, and his dad laughs and calls out, “JEEZ, what a grip my boy’s got! I’m going to patent the torque on these hands, just you wait.” He grabs one of Tony’s hands and pretends to bite his fingers. He’s _way_ too old for this baby stuff, but his dad’s so happy.

Howard stops walking and calls out, “I wasn’t kidding about getting out early for the Fourth of July, guys! Go on, get home for the weekend! I don’t want to see any of you back here until the sixth! Get moving or Tony’s gonna come by and tell you what’s what!”

He takes Tony around to everyone, introducing him and explaining what the machines do before he says to each person, “I meant it, go on, enjoy the weekend, Tony and I can manage, can’t we?”

It’s the only day Tony doesn’t mind being shown off to people.

*

July 4th is _sacred_ in their house, especially after Tony spends his first year away at school and comes back for the summer.

Howard never travels the week of the Fourth; they always have a barbecue in the yard with his parents’ hundred closest friends. Tony has to dress up and behave himself; his mother puts on her best summer dress and her biggest summer hat, the long brown waves of her hair picked up into something neat at the base of her neck that Tony will definitely get in trouble for messing up.

“Baby, don’t _do_ that,” she sighs when Tony sneaks up behind her and yanks at her hair.

He’s seven and his mom’s proud he did so well during his first year away from home at a new school, but she’s glad he’s home. Now she doesn’t do as many things during the day with her friends and women’s organizations as she used to; they take trips around the city a lot while Howard works. Maria tells him constantly that she missed him and he’s really tired of hearing that from her (and never from his dad).

“Stop calling me that,” Tony says, not as mean as when he says it to his dad.

“I used to hold you when you were a tiny little thing,” she says—just like that, she’s pulling him close and he can’t get out of the circle of her arms because his mom is a ninja or something. “When you were a baby, you _loved_ to grab my hair and pull, pull, pull, even if it was picked up like this.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony says because _ugh, moms_. “Let _go_ of me.”

She does, but she rests a hand on his cheek and smiles at him. “Are you having fun? Your dad’s wearing your favorite hat.”

“It’s not my favorite hat.”

“What?” she gasps. “But he wears it because he thinks it’s your favorite! You should tell him. He’ll wear any hat you like. What kind of hat do you want Dad to wear?”

“A Yankees cap,” Tony says. She bursts out laughing and squeezes his cheek a little, not hard like Grandma but still annoying.

“Tell him that, and let me know how it goes, all right? You make sure to run.”

“When are we going to see the fireworks?” Tony asks. “Can I bring my tools with me?”

“Ask your father,” she replies.

“About the fireworks or the tools?”

“No tools at the fireworks, you know that,” Maria says and then she sighs immediately. “I can’t believe I have to tell _both_ of you that.”

Tony’s bored so he leaves his mom and approaches the crowd of men around his father, most of them in full suits that make Tony feel sorry for them. Howard’s in his Fourth of July uniform: slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, no vest. It’s the only day Tony doesn’t see him in long sleeves and a vest. Dad doesn’t _do_ casual, so it makes sense his friends wouldn’t, either, not even today.

“Hey, there’s my boy,” Howard says.

The crowd parts to let Tony through. He’s still scrawny compared to his dad, especially in his dress up shorts and his pasty knees, but Howard puts an arm around his shoulders anyway. “Tony, tell us about what you’ve learned at school.”

“School’s boring,” Tony says. “But Mr. Prince is letting me build stuff outside of class.”

“Prince, huh?” Howard asks. Tony looks up and watches Howard nod at the men around them. “I’m telling you, even in private schools it’s rare to see that kind of initiative. People are getting too damn lazy these days.” He takes a swig of his drink and seems to remember Tony again. “Say, didn’t you get in trouble for building—”

“My typewriter caught fire,” Tony says, rolling his eyes because he's told the story a thousand times already. “I was trying to make it self-typing so I didn’t have to write my homework anymore and I could just talk at it.”

“This kid,” Howard laughs along with everyone around them. “Either he’ll teach them all something about mechanical engineering or he’ll burn the place down—I honestly can’t tell most days.”

“Maybe both,” Tony replies. Everyone laughs as Howard ruffles his hair and gently shoves him out of the group. Someone asks Howard about the Arctic and Tony takes that as his hint to go upstairs and entertain himself.

*

Tony looks up at his closed door when he hears his dad yelling up the stairs. When he hears someone coming up towards his room, he pretends he couldn’t hear and looks down at the motor he’s working on in his lap. Dummy was great at pulling pranks on his roommates (good enough to get him a single room, _finally_ —he’s twelve, for Christ’s sake, if he’s going to stay in that hellhole for another five minutes, he was going to need his own damn room), but he thinks this stupid claw can do way more with an upgrade.

There’s a couple of gentle knocks on the door; that can only be Jarvis. “Yeah?” Tony calls back.

“Your father requests your presence downstairs.”

“Jesus, come in, Jarvis,” Tony replies. “Like you couldn’t break down the door with your manners if you wanted.”

Jarvis pries open the door and Tony hears him sigh; he’s pretty sure Jarvis gets annoyed at all of them more than he lets on, but a real sigh’s pretty rare. “I see you’ve already allowed your school things and wardrobe to stage a coup over your room.”

“I can’t tell them what to do, Jarvis,” Tony says. “What’s Howard yelling about downstairs?”

“Your _father_ —” Jarvis corrects. Tony is definitely not allowed to call his parents by their “Christian names” in front of Jarvis without getting a disapproving look and his lair cleaned by the maids the minute he steps out of it. “—humbly requests your presence downstairs. He’d like to introduce you to a Colonel Carter of his acquaintance.”

“Ugh, why,” Tony moans. “Why, all they’re gonna talk about is stocks and new tech that no one can figure out because Howard only hires idiots to—”

“The colonel would like to see you, as her work has kept her from visiting for quite some time.”

“ _Her_?” Tony asks. “Colonel Carter—shit. Oh shit shit shit.” Tony scrambles up and out of the room as Jarvis mutters something about boarding school expanding his vocabulary.

“Well, well,” Howard says when Tony flies down the staircase and careens on the smooth floors until he almost crashes into his mom. Maria puts a hand on his shoulder and steadies him, giving Tony her best _be good for your father_ look before they both turn and smile for Colonel Carter. “Thanks for making an entrance, champ. You’d think you were excited to meet the colonel, even if I had to stand here and yell for ten minutes to get you.”

“I was working on Dummy,” Tony says. He smiles his best smile at Colonel Carter and says, “Dummy’s my robot. I built him. It. Him? I built a robot arm, he’s real useful, but he could use some upgrades since I built him out of scraps in our shop at school.”

Colonel Carter smiles a little, but doesn’t look impressed.

“So you’re Peggy?” Tony asks as Howard opens his mouth to introduce them. “From the Captain America movies?”

“From Captain America’s _life_ , Tony,” Howard says sharply. “Peggy, this is my son, Tony. He’s—eleven? Did you just turn eleven?”

“Jeez, Dad, I’m _twelve_ ,” Tony snaps. He puts on his best smile again and extends a hand to Peggy. “It’s nice to meet you, Peggy, I—”

“Let’s get one thing clear, Mr. Stark,” she says. “If you’re to address your father in that tone, then you can continue calling me Colonel Carter and I’ll call you Mr. Stark.”

Growing up a Stark, spending his formative years in boarding school—nothing shocks Tony anymore. Yet, here’s one of those rare instances when he’s gobsmacked and his impulse is to turn to his mom and follow her lead.

She’s trying not to laugh because she’s such a _traitor_. Tony’s face burns when he looks from his mom to Howard, who’s never looked so damn pleased with anyone, ever.

“Perhaps by the time I leave, Mr. Stark, we’ll be friends,” Colonel Carter adds.

“Yeah, maybe,” Tony mumbles.

“Show her the blue room, Tony, and take her bag,” Howard says.

Tony does as he’s told, but not without noting, “Women’s lib didn’t make it to the motherland yet, huh?”

It’s Maria’s turn to look disappointed and stab Tony in the heart a little with her frown and a sharp, “Tony, apologize. Right now.”

Then there’s Colonel Carter, who pulls her bag out of his hand and hefts it over her shoulder like it’s nothing because she’s a goddamn soldier, not a nerd who lives in his school’s basement machine shop and is due a growth spurt soon.

“My room, Mr. Stark,” Colonel Carter says.

“And if you could lighten up on that hospitality, Tony, your mother and I would appreciate it,” Howard adds.

Tony leads Colonel Carter up to the guest room silently, then retreats to his room for the rest of the day.

Tony spends the days leading up to the annual Stark Family Fuckfest known as the Fourth of July party locked in his room and waiting until Colonel Carter leaves in the morning for her social visits with Howard. Once they’re gone, he heads down to the workshop he’s claimed as his own.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see her, it’s—why would she want to see him?

Finally, the big family party rolls around and Tony watches (safely ensconced in the corner of the yard he’s chosen that year) as everyone approaches Colonel Carter in small groups. They make conversation with her, but no one stays, and she doesn’t seem to take much note of anyone.

 _So, she’s a freak_ , Tony decides, and he’s made bold by this discovery, bold enough to grab some iced tea and stroll over.

“So you were Captain America’s girlfriend.”

“Yes, that’s how I became a colonel. Thank you for not quite dating Captain America, Agent Carter. Please accept this citizenship, these assignments, and these promotions. Your decades of service pale in comparison.”

“Dad says sarcasm’s a refuge for the weak.”

“Have you met your father? It’s likely he was being sarcastic at the time.”

“You mean ironic.”

“I meant sarcastic, you _twelve-year-old_.”

They stand next to each other, looking off in different directions until Tony takes a step to leave. Colonel Carter speaks, though, and he does a little twirl with his (non-alcoholic, what the _hell_ , Mom) drink and decides to stay, hear the nice lady out so she doesn’t kick his ass.

“You’re very intelligent,” Colonel Carter notes, “But that means very little when you’re Howard Stark’s son and if you intend on running in the same circles he does.”

“Who says I do?” Tony asks.

“That chip on your shoulder,” she replies. “We’re all very intelligent, and a little kindness will take you far, perhaps without quite so many pitfalls as your father has had along the way.”

“Haven’t you heard, Colonel,” Tony says, as dry as he can manage. “I’m his son, the spitting image—”

“If you’re looking to win the belt for _best life lived in the shadow of a greater man_ , I’m afraid I won’t relinquish that quite so easily,” Colonel Carter says. “Now, if you’re looking for a sympathetic ear, and to hear from someone who knows, far better than you do, that it gets easier...”

Their eyes meet for a long moment. Tony feels like fucking sobbing on her shoulder. He’s never done that with his mom, who’s too damn nice and always explains _Howard’s side_ to him, like that makes it better.

“Could you get me a drink, Mr. Stark?” Colonel Carter asks.

“Yeah,” Tony says. He finishes his own, too, and steps away, but he’s a whole two steps away before he goes back to her and, with his eyes looking at the ground, he asks her shoes and her perfect pleated slacks, “Could you call me Tony?”

“I’ll think about it,” she says. Right now? That’s enough for him. Maybe she’ll even sit next to him during the fireworks tonight, but he won’t push his luck.

*

It’s 1986. Tony’s just finished his junior year at MIT, every radio station in New York refuses to stop playing “Take My Breath Away”, and he and his father are going to spend the entire Fourth of July party arguing about his future and (of course) the future of Stark Industries.

“And aren’t you the one who’s saying constantly, and I mean _constantly_ , that it’s better to know, and that with knowledge you can _do more_?” Tony demands. “Who needs that more than pilots? Than the guys who have to make the decision when they’re right there, in the air, about whether they should drop _your bomb_ , the one guaranteed to cause total devastation because you’re just _so damn good_ at what you do, _Dad_?”

 _Dad_ has become Tony’s favorite swear word on his rare visits home, but that doesn’t compare to what Tony feels when he realizes his dad says _Tony_ the same way. __

“Tony, don’t you _dare_ ,” Howard begins, glass in his hand and Jesus Christ, he’s already slurring even though it’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Tony looks out of the tight circle of blowhards that have decided to surround them for this argument; there’s his mom with a glass of water the size of the pool. He nods and holds up his hand, watches a waiter bring it over to him. Howard sees it and that gets him through the rest of his sentence. “Don’t you talk to me about soldiers like you know a damn thing about them. You haven’t been making the weapons that keep them safe for your entire life. You haven’t seen what happens when weapons _don’t work_ , or when they have to wait a second too long—”

“And that’s what an AI unit would do! That’s what a _good_ AI unit could do. It’d pick up the information floating around on every damn channel, friendly and enemy, and make the call for a pilot, sifting and analyzing more information faster than the human brain, which is already busy trying to keep a plane and five missiles in the air without getting shot down. It would cut down drastically on collateral damage, and if we could generate a centralized database not just with our intel but—”

“It’s a waste of your last year at MIT,” Howard says, announcing it in that fucking tone he has where God has delivered his commandments from on high and Tony better shut the hell up. “Spending a whole year on an AI that might not even work—”

“Yeah, if you came up and visited once in a while, you’d see that the future of warfare isn’t in who’s got the bigger bomb, but who _knows more_ , and Dad.” Tony chokes up for a second, really does, and maybe it’s the vodka he’s been sneaking into his drinks all day (at least he holds his liquor better than his old man, at _least_ he’s got that on him), but he’s ready to throw a goddamn tantrum like it’s his fifth birthday again and his mom didn’t let him keep the pony in the house.

What kills him, what really gets Tony, is that Howard Stark’s known around the entire world as the smartest weapons consultant on the planet. Tony’s just realizing how big of a blind spot his dad has to the future of technology and the very real role computers, computers _aware_ of facts and with processing capabilities, are going to play very, very soon. If his _dad_ has this kind of blind spot, then the rest of the world might as well be at the bottom of the fucking Mariana Trench.

They could always agree on science and technology as the one thing they were both better at than anyone else, the one language they spoke fluently together, but now Tony’s leaving him in the dust and Howard’s perfectly content to stay there.

If he’s spent his whole life angry at his father, at least he respected him; now that’s gone, too.

“Dad what?” Howard asks.

“Here,” Tony says as he hands Howard the glass of water. “I forgot there was something I had to ask Mom about.”

“Right,” Howard says. “You do that.”

Tony leaves the party and misses the fireworks. The next morning, he buys his way into a summer fellowship in Cambridge so that he can have something to show Howard by Christmas.

*

Tony’s new thing is trying to convince his mom to take a trip with him during the Fourth of July and miss the epic Stark Family Gala that’s become a staple of both the scientific community and all the random New York celebrities that manage to get an invite even though they wouldn’t know the square root of their own ego unless it sued them for custody of the kids they didn’t want in the first place.

Anyway, his mom always hugs him and always says no, so Tony always ends up back in his childhood home, roasting outside for the Fourth like he always does.

He’s 21 now and since he left MIT, he’s been working with Stark Industries’ nerdiest of the nerd, getting their computer tech updated and ready for the wave of commercial (and soon, consumer) technology that’s about to crash on their whole fucking world.

“Do you really think computers are the future?” an actress asks him. His mom says she used to date Christian Slater and Tony’s kind of having a hard time remembering telling the difference between him and Kevin Bacon. He’s also having a hard time giving a shit about what he just told her, because the thing about computers is Obie’s line to feed people when asked about what the Stark _prodigy_ is up to these days.

His dad has kind of stopped giving a shit, these days. Frankly, so has Tony.

“Yeah, totally,” Tony replies. He’s wearing a classic Howard outfit: button-down white shirt, vest, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, an AC/DC shirt underneath, and she’s toying with one of the cuffs at his elbow. It’s too hot to wear at an outdoor party, but he’s feeling kind of adrift and Gatsbian and right, he doesn’t give a shit anymore, does he? This actress (whose name he’s forgotten because when’s the last time he went out and saw a movie, honestly) toys with the cuff of his shirt; he smiles and walks away because he’s Tony Stark and he can.

 _Freedom!_ he thinks, and he’s mid-sip of his deliciously legal drink when he runs into his dad. __

“Oh,” Tony says as the vodka slithers its way down his throat, down through his chest. He chews on an ice cube as his dad looks him up and down and takes a long drink from his own glass.

“Nice girl you were talking to,” Howard says. “What’s her name?”

“No idea,” Tony replies without looking. “How was Iraq? Have a good time? Thanks for the birthday present, by the way. Mom and I had fun without you.”

Howard nods and shows no sign that what Tony’s said made any dent at all.

Tony’s about to walk away, but Howard grabs him by the elbow and what’s with everyone grabbing him today, _seriously_.

“You’re 21 now,” Howard says slowly. “You should stay in the city after the party for a day or two. We have to talk business.”

“Uh,” Tony says. Now he can’t remember the last time Howard touched him, held him, hugged him, anything. “I have to check my calendar.”

“Your calendar?” his dad scoffs. “Since when have you cared what day of the week it is?”

“I hired someone,” Tony says. “She’s good, she’s keeping me on track and she’ll let you know if I’m—”

“Look, I’m not talking to whatever tramp you want to keep on the payroll, all right? We’ve all got them and I’m very impressed you’ve managed to grow up, Tony,” Howard says with a wave of his hand.

The moment Howard says _tramp_ , the drinking problem becomes real to Tony, years too late. For all the asshole things his dad has and hasn’t done, he’s never disrespected a woman, not once and sure as hell not like _that_ , like he’s got a fucking leg to stand on.

“ _Tramp_? Who the hell _are you_?” Tony says as he steps away from Howard. “You’ve got some nerve, talking about anyone like that when you’re—and you know what, I’ll show up somewhere for _you_ when you show up at graduation, or my twenty-first birthday, or come see that house you bought me. I wanted you to be there and meet—”

“I know you’ve been busy with your robots,” Howard begins, “But you might have noticed that _America was at war_? I was kind of busy. _With the Gulf War, Tony_. That’s why we have the Fourth, kid. So we always come here, always get together on the Fourth, like a family.”

“Right,” Tony laughs. “The way we get together on the Fourth of July, otherwise known as your boyfriend Captain America’s birthday, to celebrate all these years you’ve missed my graduations, exhibitions, awards ceremonies—really, _anything_ important to me—so you could dive to the bottom of the Atlantic and hunt for the only person who’s ever mattered to you. No contest: Father of the Year.”

To his credit, Howard didn’t punch him in the mouth; Tony honestly expected that. Instead, he finishes his drink, pushes the glass into Tony’s hand, and walks away. Tony finishes his own drink and leaves the party without saying goodbye to his mother.

It’s 1991. Tony couldn’t have realized his parents only had five months to live.

*

Stark Mansion still hosts a Fourth of July party every year. Tony never attends.

Every year, though, Pepper drags him to the fireworks in New York because she has some weird fascination for them. Only Macy’s sponsored New York fireworks, too, because god knows he can set off better/deadlier ones outside the house in Malibu, but she claims it’s not the same.

He goes with her, though. There’s something about her face lighting up for 25 minutes every Fourth of July, surrounded by strangers who are too busy gaping at the pretty shapes and lights in the sky to realize they’re rubbing shoulders with Tony Stark, who’s still shorter than he’d like even after his wished-for growth spurt. Something about the way she grabs his forearm and says the most random things while those fireworks are going off, the way she’s not affected by everything he subjects her to on a daily basis, but _fireworks_? Jesus, she sure fucking loves _those_.

Tony’s jealous of pyrotechnics. It’s ridiculous.

*

Pepper’s jealous of Colonel—sorry, _General_ Carter. It’s _awesome_.

She’s in her seventies now; her hair’s silver and her slacks are still perfectly pressed. She’s in town for something at the UN and spends the evening of the Fourth with Tony and Pepper. Rhodey and Happy are around, too, but they’re somehow able to be in General Carter’s presence without massive competence-induced erections. They let Tony and Pepper hog the General to themselves.

He hasn’t seen her since his parents’ funeral, when she’d finally let him call her “Peggy” and he shook his head, said it was too late, she’s always going to be Colonel or General Carter to him, but he can definitely call her Peggy if the alternative is her kicking his ass (it is).

That was almost five years ago.

“I think you’ve done well for yourself,” Peggy says. They’re sitting in lawn chairs some distance away from the festivities on the river and at the mansion, waiting for the show to begin.  “You’ve very much toned down your more bastardly qualities since I first met you. I’d almost say you’re an adult.”

Tony raises a glass to her and clinks with both of them. Pepper allows them five seconds of silence before going for the jugular.

“What was twelve-year-old Tony like?” Pepper asks eagerly, because Tony’s told her about the battleaxe who whipped him into shape that one time and gossip trumps jealousy every time, every single fucking _time_.

“A real bastard,” Peggy replies.

“Okay, but to be fair, I was _twelve_ ,” Tony protests.

“You were proud about how you were going to be skipped a year at school,” Peggy muses. “Also, that you had found a date for your end-of-year dance with the local girls’ school.”

Pepper leans in and brings her face inches away from Tony’s. She has a shit-eating smile plastered across her face and asks, “What was your date’s name, Tony?”

“Tanya,” Tony replies. “She kissed me and her braces cut my lip. What a mess. Also, I didn’t just skip one year: I skipped _high school_. Sort of. It’s a long story.”

Pepper leans across the way and rests her hand gently on Peggy’s. “Please,” Pepper says. “Never leave us. I need to know everything you know and then torture Tony with it.”

“I think I can manage that myself, ladies, but thanks for the support,” Tony replies as the first firework shoots into the air.

*

He has some good years, some bad years, some productive years, some wasteful years. Most people use January 1 to recalibrate their lives, but Tony’s always run on different time.

He hosts a gala at the mansion every year, but every year Tony finds himself on the roof deck with Pepper and Happy. He and his whiskey quietly take stock of his life while Pepper and Happy talk around him, stuff him full of hamburgers, and get him to smile at the fireworks when 9:30 rolls around.

*

There’s a gala at the mansion tonight, the Xth Annual Howard and Maria Stark Foundation Fourth of July Gala, but the Avengers are up on the roof with Steve and Steve’s shame-inducing birthday cake because rationing and wastefulness are still _things_ to him.

“But what about your party, Tony?” Steve asks as he picks out the candles and takes the knife from Natasha so he can start slicing brick-sized pieces for everyone because god help him, they are _eating that cake_.

“It’s not mine,” Tony replies. His arm is slung around Pepper, chin resting on her shoulder until she pushes him off because his chin is heavy or it’s digging somewhere painful; both are likely. “I haven’t gone in years. I’d rather be here.”

Steve hands him the first piece of cake with a fork buried in it. As he does, he gives Tony the full-on Captain America _look_ , full of gratitude, happiness, truth, justice, all that good stuff that his comic books told him about before he outgrew them.

Tony smiles and takes the cake. The other Avengers crowd around, arguing about portion size until Tony yells that it’s Captain America’s birthday and it’s _America’s_ birthday so no one’s allowed to argue with either of them today.

“You all right?” Pepper asks as they take a few steps away from the others. Tony heads towards the part of the roof deck that’s facing the East River and Pepper follows. She grabs the fork off his plate and starts on his cake, making sure to shove a forkful into his mouth because they’re both getting diabetes tonight. “It’s been a good year,” she adds.

“You think?”

“Why do you keep checking your phone?”

“I’m checking the time, Pepper, jeez, can’t a guy check the time for the fireworks show—”

That’s when all the ambient noise behind them stops and crisp British vowels announce, “Tony, I’m sorry I’m late, I—oh.”

Pepper takes the cake from Tony and with her free hand she punches Tony in the shoulder as hard as she can, then once more for good measure because Pepper _hates_ surprises.

“General Carter,” Tony calls out as he walks over to the cake table. “Haaaaaave you met Steve?” He ignores whatever Clint has whispered to Natasha because he’s pretty sure it’s just _WOW, I would. I WOULD, Nat, I would I so totally would_ and that’s not what this is about, _Clint_.

General Carter’s ninety-fucking-four years old now and maybe it’s the decades of experimental substances and batshit insanity she’s been exposed to, or maybe she and Betty White get together to drink the blood of virgins, because she doesn’t look a day over whatever.

Bruce gently takes the cake knife out of Steve’s hand and nudges Steve towards her because Steve’s pretty much paralyzed, his eyes lighting up like every good Christmas has been dropped right there in front of him.

“General, huh?” Steve finally says.

“I’m due for my third star shortly,” she replies. “Maybe we can see to getting you a promotion.”

“General America doesn’t have quite the same ring to it,” he laughs.

“There’s a few ranks in between, you know. You’d have to go through them first.”

“Why? I skipped pretty much everything between Private and Captain.”

“I heard you saved the world a few times,” she says, nodding a little like she’s still not impressed. “That may offer some leverage.”

Tony looks around gleefully. Thor has no idea what’s going on but he knows and loves a warrior when he sees one; Natasha and Clint silently shovel cake into their mouths; Bruce has cut the rest of the cake into reasonable pieces and he’s enjoying a piece, watching Tony and not the General Carter/Steve Rogers action in front of them. Tony shrugs and looks away.

(Tony’s dragged Bruce into his upper tier trust alongside Rhodey and Happy, but that doesn’t mean Tony’s completely comfortable with Bruce seeing that he can be good sometimes.)

Pepper sneaks up on him and pushes what’s left of his cake into his hands. “You’re not allowed to surprise me ever, you know that,” she hisses.

“Worth it,” Tony replies.

“Umm,” Steve says. “Can I offer you some cake? We have lots of cake. We have _a lot_ of cake.”

“A small piece, if you please.”

The first firework goes off and Thor booms, “THE SPECTACLE! IT BEGINS!” In case it wasn’t obvious.

They’re all lined up and facing the river, Pepper with her arms around Tony’s waist and that Fourth of July firework look on her face. Tony hears Steve ask quietly, too desperate and casually all at once, “So... how have you been?”

“It’s on Wikipedia,” Peggy replies. “I’m here to claim my dance. You stood me up, you know.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, I think it took quite a bit of effort to smash a jet into a sheet of solid ice, Steve.”

“Steve look right now!” Tony yells because the next firework cost him $15,000 and more paperwork and conference calls with fireworks designers than he’d like to admit to anyone, even Pepper.

All that for a firework that shoots into the air and explodes in the Captain America shield design. Phones are whipped out around him, but Tony turns his head slightly and looks at Steve, who’s red in the face and grinning while Peggy clutches his hand with that wiry grandmother strength no one else can get quite right.

“So, Tony, next year,” Bruce says. “Will you blow up Long Island? Cape Cod?”

“Staten Island,” Peggy suggests.

“I want you to blow up Greenland for my birthday,” Clint says. “I don’t have any beef against Greenland; I just want to see if you would.”

“Can you all really not tell the difference between detonating a weapon and a controlled pyrotechnic display?” Tony asks.

“We can,” Natasha says, “But maybe we don’t want to.”

“Guys, it’s Steve’s SPECIAL DAY. You’re all fantastic, but only he gets fireworks on his birthday.”

“When my brother and I were young, he used magic to create an impressive display that—”

“NO, THOR.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you out,” Bruce whispers.

“Dammit,” Tony laughs.

Steve offers people more cake, then orders people to have more cake despite their groans and complaints. No one cries, he doesn’t lock himself in his room, no one makes him feel worthless—yeah, as Fourth of July celebrations go, it’s pretty nice.

**Author's Note:**

> The years for everyone's ages and timeline of events at Tony's life are taken from [this prop photograph](http://glorfindel.tumblr.com/post/22441914412/).
> 
> I feel like I need to clarify that when/if Peggy Carter and Betty White get together to drink the blood of virgins to maintain their vitality, the virgins are male. Exclusively.


End file.
